


Overwhelmed

by slashscribe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Job, First Time, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 20:26:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5219657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashscribe/pseuds/slashscribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock’s head is thrown back in ecstasy, resting atop the back of his chair.  His legs are spread wide and his hands are clutching the armrests and he’s trying with all his might not to move his hips, but it’s nearly impossible when the entirety of his considerable mental focus is on the white-hot pleasure of John’s mouth on his cock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Overwhelmed

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you SO MUCH to clueinglooks and sherrllocked for looking over this fic for me and encouraging me! I really appreciate it! That being said, all mistakes are mine and mine alone.

Sherlock’s head is thrown back in ecstasy, resting atop the back of his chair.  His legs are spread wide and his hands are clutching the armrests and he’s trying with all his might not to move his hips, but it’s nearly impossible when the entirety of his considerable mental focus is on the white-hot pleasure of John’s mouth on his cock.  He has never felt this before, and so he has never understood why people murder over lovers gone wrong, never understood why people make such irrational decisions because of sex, but suddenly, with the lush velvet feel of John’s tongue splayed flat against the underside of his cock, with the feel of John’s mouth stretched around him, he _understands_.

 

He feels out of control, like his entire being has been reduced to the sharp pleasure of John’s mouth.  John hasn’t even moved yet, he’s just taken him in his mouth, and Sherlock is biting his lip, panting, gripping the armrests with all his strength.

 

John brings his mouth back up the length of Sherlock’s cock, lets his tongue swirl over the head, and Sherlock jerks, a groan spilling from his mouth that turns to a whimper when the cool air of the flat slides over his wet, bare cock.

 

“Alright?” John asks.  His voice is rough, and Sherlock’s chest is heaving and he picks up his head to look at John.  His eyes are wide, he knows, and he thinks he must look possessed, crazed. 

 

“J-John,” he manages.  His voice is unsteady.  His cock is throbbing. His heart is beating a fast staccato rhythm in his ears.  His entire body is thrumming with want, with desire, with _need_.

 

John grins from where he is kneeling between Sherlock’s legs. He leans forward, his eyes never leaving Sherlock’s, and he presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the side of Sherlock’s cock.  Sherlock’s hips jerk up and he moans helplessly, eager for the feeling of John’s mouth on him again.

 

“Relax,” John murmurs.  His mouth is so close to Sherlock’s cock that Sherlock can feel the hot air of his words against his skin and he shivers. 

 

“You don’t have to hold the chair so tight,” John tells him. He strokes his hands up and down Sherlock’s sides in an effort to relax him, but it’s making him more needy, more desperate.  “Go on. Relax.”

 

Sherlock unclenches his hands as best he can. He’s still staring at John wide-eyed, still trying to comprehend the way it felt to have a _mouth_ on his _cock,_ let alone _John’s_ mouth, when John’s tongue darts out and swirls around the head of his cock again. Sherlock’s thighs tremble and he moans and he feels desperately out of control already and then John stretches his lips around him once more and moves his head down, slow and controlled and hot and wet and velvety. 

 

The sight of him is too much and Sherlock lets his head fall back again, closes his eyes, focuses on the feeling of John around him. John wraps his hand around the base of his cock, and works it up and down as he bobs his head. 

 

Sherlock’s hips jerk upwards; he can’t help it. John holds him by the hip to keep him down with one hand while the other stays on his cock, and Sherlock’s heart beats faster and he moans again, so loud that he’s shocked by the sound, and he spares a thought for Mrs. Hudson but then John starts moving faster and he’s moaning again, helpless.  His legs are twitching, he’s panting, and his entire being is reduced to the warm heat of John around his cock.  It’s like nothing he’s ever felt; he’s afraid he’s going to come already and it’s only just begun.

 

He’s desperate for John.  He wants to kiss him, wants to hold him, but the idea of John’s mouth leaving his cock is unthinkable so he does the only thing he can to get close to him: he reaches out blindly until his trembling hand comes in contact with John’s head and he rakes his fingers through John’s short hair, rests his palm there. John moans at the contact and Sherlock feels the vibration around his cock and he shudders, tugging on John’s hair for a moment to hold him still, biting his lip and panting and holding his body as still as he can, his toes clenched, desperation washing over him because he is _so close_ , but he’s not ready, not yet, _not yet_ , and John pulls off, understanding, running his hands up and down Sherlock’s sides.

 

“It’s alright, love,” John says.  His voice is hoarse from Sherlock’s cock hitting his throat and Sherlock whimpers.  “Just take a minute. Breathe.”

 

“John,” Sherlock says.  It sounds like a moan, like a prayer, like a plea.  “John, it’s – you –”  He can’t bring himself to talk so he picks up his head to look down at John.

 

“Christ, look at you,” John says.  He sounds awed, impressed, and he’s still running his hands up and down Sherlock’s sides, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

 

Sherlock swallows hard.  John’s lips are swollen and shiny with spit, and Sherlock feels a jolt deep in his stomach at the sight.  “John,” he says.  He feels like he’s begging, and he doesn’t understand what for. 

 

“Ready for more?” John asks.  He licks his lips, and Sherlock shudders.

 

“I can’t – I won’t last,” Sherlock says desperately.

 

“It’s alright,” John says.  “I just want you to feel good.”

 

“I do,” Sherlock says immediately.   “I do, I do, it’s – it’s – please, John - ”

 

Sherlock can’t remember ever being at a loss for words like this, can’t remember ever being reduced to his physical needs like this, can’t remember ever feeling this desperate.  He’s on edge and needy and John presses a reassuring kiss to his bare hip, then looks up at him with a wicked smile and Sherlock’s breath hitches and his head falls back again as soon as he feels John’s tongue swirl around his cock, spreading a bead of pre-come around, then his mouth is back, hot and slick and perfect. 

 

Sherlock puts his hand in John’s hair again, and he feels his stomach jolt when John starts moving faster, his hand pumping along with his mouth.  Sherlock groans, and it grows higher pitched and louder and more frantic when John takes him even deeper, almost all the way to the base, and Sherlock feels his toes curl against the floor and his legs tremble and his hand is tightening in John’s hair and there are sounds coming from his mouth he had no _idea_ he would ever make in his life but he can’t stop them, can’t stop this, can’t stop the spiral of pleasure starting at the base of his spine and spreading over his body and then his hips are jerking even though John’s trying to hold them down and his legs tremble and spasm and he’s coming, hard, into the wet heat of John’s mouth and John isn’t picking his head up, he’s not pulling away, and it makes Sherlock moan helplessly and thrust up into John’s mouth and come harder, his legs jerking out, his head thrown back, until finally, _finally_ he is spent, and he falls bonelessly back to the chair, his chest heaving as he tries to breathe and come down from what was possibly the most intense orgasm he has ever had. John is running his hands up and down his thighs and Sherlock can’t pick up his head but he manages to grab onto John’s hands, stilling them, and John squeezes, sweeping his thumb soothingly along Sherlock’s skin.

 

Sherlock is trembling and he needs John, needs to be near him. He lets go of John’s hands and he pushes against the arm rests of the chair and moves forward until he’s sliding off the chair entirely, sliding down to the floor, reaching for John, burying his face in John’s neck, clinging to him, still trembling, still breathing hard. 

 

John cards his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and presses a kiss to the top of his head.  “It’s alright,” John says.  “You’re alright.”

 

“John,” Sherlock manages.  His voice is thick and shaky.  “ _John_.”

 

“I know, love,” John says.  He pulls Sherlock closer, wraps his arms around him, kisses everywhere his lips can reach.  Sherlock can feel John’s cock – it’s hard and hot and leaking and he wants to help him, he wants to take care of it, but he can’t, not yet, not when his limbs feel like jelly and his heart is pounding in his ears.  He needs to be closer to John; he wants to dissolve into the pores of John’s skin, to crawl inside John’s body and never leave, to fuse together and never part.

 

His heart is still pounding and he’s still trembling, but he picks up his head and John cups his face, his thumbs sweeping over his cheekbones, wiping moisture away from his eyes that Sherlock hadn’t been aware of until that moment. John leans forward and kisses him tenderly, and Sherlock sighs into the kiss, shivering at the bitter taste of himself in John’s mouth. 

 

“That was intense, hmm?” John asks.  He’s grinning, and his eyes are bright and he looks rather proud of himself. Sherlock adores him – _loves him_ – with every fiber of his being, and rather than answering, he leans forward and kisses him again, hot and hard and eager. He brings a hand down between them and wraps it around John’s cock, thumbing over the leaking slit and spreading the moisture around. 

 

John lets out a surprised moan and tangles his fingers into Sherlock’s hair.  He breaks the kiss to rest his head against Sherlock’s neck, his breath hot and moist against Sherlock’s skin.  Sherlock loves it and he knows if he hadn’t just come, he would be hard already. 

 

“Fuck, Sherlock, that’s so good,” John says, moaning again when Sherlock’s hand starts to move faster.  “I’m so close already, that’s it, just a little more, yeah, faster - ”

 

Sherlock moves his hand fast up and down John’s cock. He loves the way it fits in his hand, loves the way it feels to have John writhing against him, panting against his neck, tugging at his hair, clutching his back, moaning obscenely. He desperately wants John to come, wants to feel John’s come all over his hand, wants to feel John collapse against him in bliss, wants to hear the sounds he makes – and then John's hip jerk in time with Sherlock’s hand and he groans and then his body goes taut and he comes, coating Sherlock’s hand, some of it spurting up to his chest. Sherlock pumps him through it then pulls his hand away and without thinking, he brings it up to his mouth and licks, eager to know how John tastes. John moans when he does this and pulls him into a frantic, hot kiss.  Sherlock melts into the kiss, clutches at John with his sticky hand, and marvels at how much his entire world has changed in the short time since he and John have gotten together.

 

John breaks the kiss and he’s panting, still coming down from his orgasm.  “Christ,” John says. “Can’t believe you – can’t believe you tasted it.”

 

Sherlock frowns, suddenly unsure.  “Is that – is that not good?”

 

John looks up at him and shakes his head urgently. “No, no, no, it’s not that,” he says reassuringly. “It was just – fuck, it was hot.”

 

“It was?” Sherlock asks in surprise. 

 

“Mm,” John says.  He smiles, then tilts his head and kisses Sherlock again, slowly, tenderly.

 

“Think we’ll make it to the bedroom next time?” John asks afterward, his face centimeters from Sherlock’s, so close that Sherlock can see him in glorious detail.

 

Sherlock’s heart skips a beat at the thought of next time. He can already feel his cock stirring even though he’s only just come, and he trails his fingers up and down John’s spine, imagining all the different things they can do together.

 

“John,” he murmurs.  “John, you – that was –”

 

“It was good, hmm?” John says. 

 

Sherlock nods.  He feels vulnerable and exposed but somehow safe, and he sighs in pleasure when John tenderly brushes a curl off his forehead, sweeps a thumb over his temple, kisses his cheek and the corner of his mouth.

 

“Let’s go to bed,” John says.  His voice is gentle, and Sherlock feels as if he’s melting.

 

“It’s only the afternoon,” Sherlock says, though he can’t think of anything he’d like to do more than to crawl into bed with John, to curl his body around John’s and touch every inch of him and never let go.

 

“That’s alright.  Come on,” John says.  He braces a hand against the floor and stands, and Sherlock feels bereft as soon as John is no longer beside him.  He scrambles up to join him, and John smiles, takes him by the hand.  “Let’s clean up a bit and have a lie-in,” he says, leading Sherlock down the hall to the bathroom.

 

Sherlock follows, content, a smile he can’t control growing on his lips as John leads him into the bathroom, then pauses beside the sink and turns around to face him.  He strokes Sherlock’s cheek and Sherlock leans into the touch, his eyes half-lidded and focused on John.  John goes up on his toes and kisses him softly, and when he pulls away, Sherlock just watches him, feeling hazy and content. 

 

John smiles at him warmly and takes his hands, running them under the tap for him, then drying them off.  He takes the corner of the towel and wets it, then uses it to clean off their chests, and Sherlock just watches, his heart overflowing with things he doesn’t know how to process or understand, his heartbeat loud in his ears.

 

Sherlock realizes his face must be showing a lot more than usual because John pauses, setting the towel aside and taking Sherlock’s face in his hands. 

 

“Alright?” John asks.

 

Sherlock nods, swallowing, his eyes flickering over John’s face, taking in the gentle slope of his nose, the blue of his eyes, the familiar furrow of his brow.   “I love you,” Sherlock says suddenly.  He hadn’t meant to say it, hadn’t expected to, but it’s _true_ , and he reaches for John and hugs him, breathes in the scent of his hair, relishes in the feel of John’s skin beneath his hands. “I love you,” he says again. His heart is pounding and he feels strange and lightheaded.

 

John shifts in the embrace until he can tug Sherlock’s head down for a kiss.  It starts as just a peck, as a press of lips together in reassurance, and then John moves his mouth a bit against Sherlock’s, lets his lips part, lets his tongue dart out, and then they’re kissing and it’s long and luxurious and Sherlock feels as if his heart is splitting open inside his chest.

 

“I love you,” John says after a moment, pulling away from the kiss. “Of course I love you.”

 

Sherlock closes his eyes and his breath hitches. He’s not sure how to process any of this and he needs a moment, but gently, John takes his hands and pulls, and so Sherlock opens his eyes and allows John to lead him through the bathroom and into the bedroom. 

 

“Come lie down with me,” John says.  He turns back the duvet and crawls into Sherlock’s bed as if he’s always slept there and Sherlock eagerly gets in beside him. John lies flat on his back and holds his arm out to the side, inviting Sherlock to curl up beside him. Sherlock does, throwing an arm around John’s waist, tangling their legs together, and resting his head on John’s chest where he can hear the reassuring thump of John’s heart beneath his ear. John kisses the top of his head and shifts his leg back and forth soothingly against Sherlock’s.

 

Sherlock has never slept with his head on someone’s chest before, has never slept with his arm around someone’s waist or someone’s arms around him or his legs tangled together with someone else’s, and his heart is still beating fast as he tries to take it all in. 

 

“Sleep,” John tells him.

 

“I don’t think I can,” Sherlock admits, his fingers trailing over John’s hip.

 

“Thinking too much?” John asks.

 

Sherlock nods, knowing John will feel the movement.

 

“You should try anyway,” John says.  He rubs his leg along Sherlock’s again, slowly and deliberately this time.  “We can have another go when we wake up.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes fly open, suddenly alert. He feels a stirring in his groin, and his breath speeds up a little bit.

 

“Oh Christ,” John says.  “Already?”

 

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock says. His fingers are moving in slow circles on John’s hip and he’s thinking about what John’s cock would feel like in his mouth.  “Approximately how long is your refractory period?”

 

John snorts out a giggle in surprise, and Sherlock looks up at him, affronted, but then he can’t help but giggle, too, and then they’re both laughing and kissing and by the time their laughter quiets and their kisses grow deeper and their sighs turn to moans, they’re ready, and Sherlock marvels at how he ever could have lived without this. 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, I'd love to hear what you think! Thanks for reading, and feel free to come chat with me on tumblr. I'm slashscribe there as well.


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